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Thursday, December 30, 2010

I hope you have your champagne chilling because in just a few hours it will be time to obligatorily take a sip and then kiss who ever you are dating, married to or just happen to be standing next to at midnight. So many people love the taste of champagne but only have it on special occasions. I say fuck that. Have it whenever you want it. About two weeks ago, I made hamburgers for dinner and served it with a bottle of fine sparkling wine. It really complimented the Costco meat patties, Miracle Whip and American cheese. Opening a bottle of champagne takes a bit of practice so I thought I would share with you my immense experience of opening them. And before you think I am a total alcoholic (I am), this experience comes from six years as a brunch server where I opened about twenty bottles a day. Most people think that successfully opening bottle of champagne means it spews out all over the place in a premature ejaculation kind of way. Not cool though. Here is the right way to open a bottle of champagne:

Take off that foil crap that is all around the cork. Use your teeth if you have to.

Now you want to remove that wire cage thing. You have to put your thumb over the cork in case the pressure has built up and it's ready to pop. Unless you shook the bottle too much, it's probably fine. Just don't point the bottle at your nether regions or eyes. Twist the wire counter-clockwise six half rotations and then take it off. Or leave it on. Whatever.

Now you can put a towel over it in prep to remove the cork. I don't do that though because I'm a pro. Grip the cork and now start twisting the bottle. Not the cork. The bottle. Kinda pull it at the same time and you should feel it start to loosen and rise from the bottle.

Keep control of the cork even though it's totally tempting to shoot that bitch at somebody. Don't do it. It really brings down a party when someone actually loses an eye. You want to let it release with a soft "poofy" noise. Like the sound a fart makes when you think it's going to be silent, but it's not. You don't want that loud pop.

It's open. Pour that baby into a beer bong and go to town.

The movies always show people popping the cork and then laughing as the champagne spills all over the place. What they don't show is what a pain in the ass it is to clean up all that champagne. They also don't show me sitting in the corner at the end of the night all pissed off because we are out of champagne because half of it is on the fucking floor.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

At my job, I get to serve drinks during the shows of some extraordinarily talented people, some of whom are very famous. It's kind of a treat when someone I have known of my entire life shows up to sing there and I get to meet them and talk to them and hear their show. It's definitely a perk with my job. This very thing happened a few weeks ago.

If you grew up in the 80's, you must remember Too Close for Comfort. It ran on ABC from 1980 to 1986 and it was pretty popular. It ran on Tuesday nights right after Happy Days, Lavern and Shirley and Three's Company. It was the best television night of the week ever, except for Saturday night when Love Boat and Fantasy Island came on. If you don't recall Too Close For Comfort, what the hell is wrong with you? I loved the crazy wacky neighbor Monroe who was was played by Jim J. Bullock. He was gayer than the day is long and makes Lispy Gay seem like a butch leather daddy. The show was your typical sitcom fare with a bumbling dad (Ted Knight), two hot daughters (Has Been #1 and Has Been #2) and a sensible all knowing mom named Muriel Rush played with perfection by Nancy Dussault. Nancy Dussault is who I had the pleasure of listening to while I waited tables. She has a real long legitimate Broadway career and I was excited to meet this lady who I had grown up watching. When she came in for her sound check, I was hoping she would be as cool and as sweet as she seemed on television in the 80's. (It's amazing that I an even recall seeing her on television in the 80's since I wasn't even born yet...) Guess what. She was so freakin' cool. She was genuine and sincere and smiled a lot and I even had a conversation with her which thrilled me to no end. I would like to dictate the entire conversation for your reading pleasure:

NANCY: Hi there. Would you mind getting me a glass of water please?ME: Not at all. Do you want ice?NANCY: No thank you.(I got her a glass of water and put a straw in it. The straw still had the paper wrapper around the top of it. I handed her the glass as she pulled the paper off the straw.)NANCY: Teamwork!ME: That's right!

So I may have only had the most banal of conversations, but this is what I was thinking in my head:

Oh my God, I can't believe I am meeting you. I loved Too Close For Comfort. Do you still talk to the rest of the cast? Well I know you don't talk to Ted Knight anymore because he's dead and that would be creepy, but do you still talk to the live ones? Was Jim J. Bullock as gay as he seemed? I loved him. He was funny. I know your character was a photographer who used to be a singer but how come they didn't let you sing on the show all the time? Oh my god, that would have been so cool. I love in the opening credits how Ted Knight would fall off that couch? That was so funny. Was it hard to shoot that scene because it was so funny? Oh my god, it was so funny. Hey, do you know Fonzie? Can I hug you? Because I really think you're cool. You guys should totally have a reunion show and I would totally watch it. I mean, it would be sad that Ted Knight wouldn't be on it, but it would still be pretty cool. The girls who played your daughters were so hot but Monroe was my favorite. Next to you, I mean. You are my favorite. Hey, do you know Suzanne Sommers?

Don't worry, I kept it together and made that conversation stay inside my mind. I played it smooth. Her show was great. She can still sing, she's very funny and I really enjoyed getting her a glass of water. And you should totally refresh your memory about her television career by watching this video. Once you see it, you too will think that when Ted Knight falls off the couch, it's really really for reals funny.

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Monday, December 27, 2010

Between it being Christmas, this crazy fucked up blizzard and my sheer and utter laziness, I have not written for a couple of days. Hopefully, you are all getting over your Christmas/Kwanzaa/Solstice/Hanukkah bloat and are ready to focus on the task at hand: Bitchy Waiter. I must share with you my Christmas Eve meal because it was kinda amazing. I went to a place called Kittichai for your typical holiday meal of modern Thai cuisine and lots and lots of cocktails. Loved. It.

Starting at the bar, I was overwhelmed with options for my starter drink. They all looked so good. I laughed to the bartender, "Can I just have a taste of every single one?" The bartender clearly had no sense of humor because he just rolled his eyes and said no. Or maybe he did have a sense of humor but was in an understandably shitty mood since it was 8:00 PM on Christmas Eve and he has to make cocktails for an alcoholic bitch like me. I meant to write down the name of every drink but I assured myself I would remember the name and all the ingredients in them as well. Fail. My first was called something like a chili citrus martini and it made my face melt off with deliciousness. I do recall that it had Citrus Vodka, Limoncello and hot peppers muddled in it. It was so freaking good. After the first sip, I thought it was too spicy, but after sip number three it was just right and after sip number ten I was just said that it was gone. Go there. Order it. Tell them The Bitchy Waiter sent you. They won't know what the fuck you are talking about, but say it anyway.

At this point, the table was ready and I ordered cocktail number two. Again, I forgot what it was called and even what was in it. Vodka, I know that. Cocktail number three was called Thom and was citrus vodka with fresh mint. Again, it was perfection. Of course at this point they could have served me leftover dog drool with a garnish and I would have been happy. The food was divine as well. Crispy rock shrimp and coconut chicken in lettuce wraps gave me a Thai boner as my apps and for dinner I took a virtual bath in the green curry. Dessert was the flourless chocolate cake. I felt like I climaxed. And swallowed.

The service was top notch. After my days at The Place that Shall Not Be Named, I see how the inner workings of fine dining go. When I got up to go to the men's room, I watched as a backwaiter rushed to my table to refold my napkin. After the entree, someone glided over to crumb the table. Our order was taken by a manager who seemed like an Asian Ana Gasteyer and was eager to share her extensive menu knowledge. She was friendly and attentive but I couldn't help but wonder if she had a little bit of Holly Hobbiegoing on.

At the end of the night, my stomach was as full as my wallet was empty. But it didn't matter. This was my Christmas present. I bestowed fat tips on my server, the coat check girl and the front bartender. I was content. The meal was perfect and I had not one single solitary thing to bitch about. A trueChristmas miracle indeed.

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Saturday, December 25, 2010

It's Christmas day and you don't have anything better to do than to be reading this lame ass posting that I am pulling out if my ass? Go have yourself another mimosa and a second piece of pecan pie immediately. And if you are looking for something a little bitchy for Christmas, might I suggest you go watch this video of a horrible Mrs. Claus? I think it exemplifies Christmas from The Bitchy Waiter point of view.

Merry Christmas!

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Friday, December 24, 2010

This is a Bitchy Waiter tradition. I wrote this last year and I hope you enjoy this magical tale about a waiter closing down his restaurant and dealing with one last customer. If you'd like to hear it read to you, please click here. If you'd like to download the podcast version of it on iTunes, you can click here. Merry Christmas.

Love,The Bitchy Waiter

'Twas the Night Before a Bitchy Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas, in the front of the houseThe only creature still stirring was that sad dying mouse;

The glue trap was placed by the reach-in with care,In hopes that the rodents would soon be aware;

This server was ready to be home in his bed.While visions of auto-grat danced in his head.

My apron now off, cleaning my last ketchup cap,When I hear from the window a soft gentle rap.

I try to ignore all the obnoxious clatter,But I walk towards the noise to see what’s the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,Crack it open so slightly, do nothing rash.

The moon on the breasts of this tired looking hoGave me the feeling she wanted some mo’.

When, what to my wondering eye should appear,This bitch had a coupon for one freebie beer.

With her Lee Press-on Nails and her mascara too thick,I knew in a moment she must be some trick.

A hooker, a ho, or whatever the name,“It’s Christmas Eve, bitch. We’re closed, it’s a shame.”

“Please, just a Bud, a Corona or Bass!I have this free coupon I pulled from my ass!In six more short days, the coupon’s not valid,And if not a beer, maybe one small side salad?”

I looked at the lady, saw the need in her eyes,And wondered how badly she wanted some fries.

“But we’re closed for the night and I’m ready to go”So I turned off the light and shut the window.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,Scratching and gnawing giving me proofThat this crack whore was desperate and needed a beerOr maybe she needed some holiday cheer.

She broke through the skylight and came down with a thud.Her panties were twisted and covered with mud.

Way too much makeup was covering her faceAnd her sad bloodshot eyes were scanning the place.

Her eyes- how they crossed! Her hair was so scary!I pitied the loser who had popped her cherry.

Her droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,And her nose was all white from doing some blow.

The stump of a blunt she held tight in her teeth.And the stench of her body encircled her head like a wreath;

She had a broad face and a round big fat belly,And she reached to a table for a packet of jelly.

She slurped it up quickly and looked at the shelfI picked up a steak knife to protect myself.

The bottles of liquor went straight to her head,And I knew right away I had nothing to dread;

She spoke not a word, but went straight to the whiskey.She downed the whole bottle and asked “did you miss me?”

And laying her finger aside of her nose,She took one deep sniff and reached into her clothes.

In her hand was the coupon for the beer that was freeShe said thank you, then burped and gave it to me.

I opened the door and she went out of sight,Saying “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight.”

Thursday, December 23, 2010

I certainly don't enjoy repeatedly stepping on someone's foot or kicking them in the shin every time I walk past their table. However, sometimes these things happen and they simply can't be avoided. Well, actually, it could be avoided if that someone would just keep their fucking legs underneath their table instead of out in the goddamn mother fucking aisle.

I wait tables in the dark. It's true. I have developed a keen cat-like vision that allows me to navigate through a crowded room with only the tiniest bit of light. I cocktail in a cabaret venue, so the only lights are the ones that are focused on the singer. Yes, it would be nice to have a special or a spotlight that followed me so I could see where I was stepping, but that's just not how it is. I deal. Last night, a woman at table three seemed unable to keep her legs anywhere other than the lone aisle that I have to walk through in order to get to every other table in the room. She was wearing black pants and black shoes and when you take into account that there is no light, you can see why it was easy for me to kick her three or twenty times. You would think that after the first time I accidentally step on her toe she would have some thought mechanism that would tell her maybe she should move her feet out of the fucking way. She had no such thought mechanism. After the show was over, I was walking in the aisle and I tripped on her enormous feet. Again. I stopped and said, "I know I hit your leg a few times during the show, I'm so sorry." That was her cue to say something like, "No it's my fault. I have no manners and don't respect you at all and coupled with my abnormally large feet, I have been a nuisance to you all night. Please forgive me." Instead she said, "Yes, you hit me three times. The third time's the charm, do I get something?" Bitch, I hate you. I laughed my fake ass laugh and said, "I know, I'm sorry, but I just couldn't see. And this is the aisle. That I walk in." She countered with, "Well, my friend didn't want me to have my feet under the table because I was kicking her, so I had to put them in the aisle." Excuse me? Her friend is just sitting there and not walking. And why is she kicking her? Does she have restless leg syndrome or some involuntarily tic that makes her leg bounce around? "Well, this is the aisle though. I have to walk here." Then she asked me where she was supposed to put her legs then? What the fuck kind of question is that? You put your fucking legs under the table and deal with it. If I had my druthers, I'd have them both amputated at the knee and then shoved up her ass. But I suggested that next time she sit cross-legged Indian style and then laughed my fake ass laugh. "Oh, well maybe ten years ago I could have done that. But not anymore." Like I really expected her to do that. It was a joke. And looking at her, the only thing she could do ten years ago that she can't do now is control her bowel movements.

I gave up. Show over. Scene complete. Don't care. I hope she had bruises on her knees from me hitting her all night. But she probably didn't. Her knees are probably all calloused from the bathroom blow jobs anyway.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

I was slapped in the face with the aroma of a bread stick a few days ago and then fell into a bowl of never ending salad, for I stepped into the wonder that is The Olive Garden. I have written before about this feast for the senses and have poked fun at it many many times. So why did I allow myself to return to this place that is overflowing with tourists and people from New Jersey? I needed a gift card to give to my parents for Christmas and they freakin' love that place. Yes, I am giving the gift of The Olive Garden to my parents. And since I know they don't read this, I am not worried that they will find out about their majestic gift before Christmas day.

Before I walked in, I put my hood over my head and pulled my scarf high around my neck. The Olive Garden is right down the street from where I work and I certainly couldn't take a chance that someone would see me and think that I was going in for lunch. I had never been into an Olive Garden here in New York City and I was pleasantly surprised when I was safely ensconced inside. Unlike most New York City restaurants, the place was bright and expansive with lots of room between the tables. Most of the time here, you are crammed in so close to your fellow diners that you can pretty much bump elbows with each other as you break bread. The hostess greeted me with a warm smile and a friendly hello. Suddenly, I really did feel like family. I noticed the servers were wearing crisply starched white shirts with nice ties and clean bistro aprons. The whole corporate feel was really working for them. They all seemed happy and content and I caught a couple of them laughing together. Then I saw an old waiter who looked days away from either collecting Social Security benefits or just flat out keeling over. After I pulled myself away from seeing my own harsh future, I thought, "Hmmm, I wonder if they're hiring. If I worked with Grandpappy Pasta over there, I wouldn't be the oldest server at my job. I'd feel like a kid again!" Would it be so bad working for a chain restaurant? It's not like I haven't done it before; Houlihan's, Pizzeria Uno, The Black Eyed Pea and Bennigan's were all heavy on the corporate. I bet Olive Gardeners get meal breaks with free pasta and salad. They can probably eat all the bread sticks they want. But then look at who they have to serve. Oh, yeah. No amount of never-ending salad would make up for serving Roy and Loretta Jerseytown who thought they would come into the city for dinner and a show. I would puke listening to them talk about how much better Phantom of the Opera was this time than the last time they saw it. And have you ever walked passed The Olive Garden on Sixth Avenue on a Friday night? Good lord, I don't want to have to wait on that crowd. Not that it wouldn't give me plenty to write about.

I went up to the bartender and purchased the $75 gift card for Mommsy and Poppsy. The girl behind the bar was all fresh and clean and corporate. She told me to have a nice day and I didn't see one teeny tiny marinara stain anywhere on her uniform. Impressive for sure. I gave her three bucks for her trouble and took one last whiff of the sweet smells of pre-packaged Italian food and Sysco products before heading back into the real world. Once on the cold dirty sidewalk, the warmth of The Olive Garden seemed so much further away than the thickness of one plate glass window. Gift card safely in hand, I headed to my job where it's crowded with tables and dimly lit with candles which perfectly conceals the fadedness of my uniform. I'm not meant to work in a fancy place like The Olive Garden. I'll just dream about it. Visions of chicken Parmesan dance in my head.

Monday, December 20, 2010

After a few days of writing some silly little fictionalized account of Lispy Gay, I am ready to get back to bitching. My soul is craving it. My organs are on the verge of failure due to the lack of complaining for the last few days. Off to the races.

A few days ago at table 32 (It's always table 32) I had a group of what was supposed to be eight people but it was actually only four. The other people "may or may not show up" they tell me. They think it's no big deal, but three people had paid in advance and I have no idea if the the four people who are at the table are those people or if I need to charge them the cover charge. I tried to explain, but they didn't care. Or understand. One guy orders two Johnny Walker Blacks on the rocks. Two of them at once. He was thirsty. His friend did the same. I didn't realize at this point they they were already shitfaced. The pre-show announcement happens. "Please turn of your cell phones and no flash photography, etc..." Ten minutes into the show, a cell phone rings. Table 32 of course. They guy answers the phone but since he doesn't want to be rude to his friends or anything, he moved to a different table and had a conversation during the show. Nice, asshat. I went to the table to check on the other three and one guy says to me he wants another drink. "And what's your name?" he asks me. I quietly tell tell him and try to move on since you know, there is a singer on stage about 10 feet away from us. "Why don chu sit down and haf a drink wiz us," he says. As tempting as that offer was, I declined. Meanwhile, Mr. Telephone Man has returned to his seat for a hot second and then went to the bathroom, leaving his cell phone on the table. Which started to ring as soon as he left the room. Apparently, none of his friends knew how to silence it, because it rang three or four times. Nice, asshats. I made it back to the table with another drink and again it was suggested that I join them. But this time Drunky stood up and put his arm around me and leaned into my face to talk to me. He smelled like Johnny Walker had taken a bath in moonshine and then threw up. The show is still happening. I leave and then hear the phone again. A fellow server, who just wanted an excuse to give someone some attitude, went to him and told him to leave the room if he was going to be on the phone. He stumbled outside and then stayed there for the rest of the show. He came up to me to apologize for his friend's behavior (but not his own) and then wanted to settle the tab which was $224. I ran his credit card and told him he could leave it on the bar. After he signed it, he gave the receipt to the server who had reprimanded him and told her, "No tip for you!" and pointed at the glaringly empty line where the tip should go. Great. I should have taken the free drink he was offering me.

After the show was over, he came up to me and said "I wanna tip you though." I guess I was the good cop and my friend was the bad cop but we pool so it didn't matter. He whipped out four twenty dollar bills and threw them in my hand giving my co-worker a look that said "this could have been for you, bitch." She didn't care though because she knew half of it was for her.

By this time, the audience was milling about and a couple of other people told them how rude they were doing the show. They got all pissed off and made a scene about it and the manager finally asked them to leave the club. They did, but the last thing any of them said was this: "We have been thrown out of much nicer places than this." Uh, was that supposed to be an insult to us? Because it kinda made us think these folks are pretty pathetic. I reached into my apron and felt the 40% tip. As they walked through the lobby, I said, "Thanks so much. Come back anytime." And I meant it too. For a 40% tip, I can deal with drunk ass losers who have no manners or tact. Hell, I can deal with that for 25%. Or maybe even 20%. But for 40%? Hell yes. No problem. Y'all come back now, ya hear?

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"Mi nombre es Stefano. I want to talk to you." Lispy Gay didn't know who this was on the other end of the line. The voice sounded familiar, but the name didn't ring a bell. "You know me as Steven? I deliver for Choking Chicken?" A brief moment and then Lispy realized he was talking to the very man who was the pawn in his whole blackmailing scheme. The blackmailing scheme that seemed to no longer matter because the wife of the man he was threatening was here in his home and she didn't even care if her husband was gay. This was the worst Christmas village day ever. "Oh, hi there, tho nith of you to call. How are you thith morning?" He was careful to not say his name since Priscilla was a few feet away and listening to the conversation. Or maybe he should say the name and blow this whole thing out of the water and get back to his day of decorating. "Yo neccisito to tell you something, si?" Lispy Gay put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Prithilla, I have to take thith call. I'll be right back." He stepped into his craft/Christmas wrapping room and shut the door. 'What ith thith all about Theven?"

"Sir, yo quiero to know that Sam on his way to your casa. And I want to tell you that I don't love him no more. You can have him. He is yours now." Lispy didn't know what to say. So he said, "I don't want Tham. Why ith he coming here?" Stefano, crying and sniffing, said, "Because every time I give him my special delivery in his office, under his desk, he always saying your name and not mine. He love you Lispy Gay, not me. You take him. He yours now. Beech." He hung up.

"Oh dear, Tranny Thore Ath Rex, Tham loveth me? And he'th on hith way here? But what about Prithilla? And what about Department 56th Original Thnow Village?" He walked back into the living room where he saw Priscilla admiring his collection of thimbles, one from each state. "Prithilla, I think it might be bethst if you go home. I'm thorry about Tham, but I juth can't help you and I have a lot to do before my mother comesth over for tea tho..." The doorbell rang. Lispy knew who it was. Nervous, he said, "Ha ha, it'th like Grand Thentral Sthathion in here today, ith'nt it?" Unable to avoid the inevitable, he opened the door to reveal Sam who was holding a present wrapped in pink tissue paper.

"Hi Lispy Gay. I need to talk to you." His eyes focused on his wife. "Priscilla, what are you doing here?"

"I think you're gay and I just wanted to confirm my thoughts with the gayest man I have ever known," she said gesturing to Lispy Gay. "No offense, Lispy Gay."

"None taken," said Lispy.

"Are you gay, Sam?" Her husband looked down at the gift in his hand and then handed it to Lispy. "Yes. Yes I am. And I love Lispy Gay. I'm sorry, Priscilla. I'm so sorry."

"Tham, you love me? Are you thure? What about Theven?"""Steven was just a substitute for you Lispy Gay. I have loved you ever since you gave me your resume that smelled like Chanel #5. You are the best Chicken Choker I have ever known and I want to Choke Chickens with you for the rest of my life.""Then why did you fire me thith morning and how did you know I wath'nt really thick?"Sam smiled. "I was on a message board for Department 56 and I saw your post. I love the Original Snow Village and I was so sad that I couldn't be with you to set up your village. I guess, I just lost my senses.""You are on the Thnow Village methage board? I had no idea. What ith your thscreen name?""I am Tham I Am. And I have something for you." He handed him the present.Lispy Gay fumbled to open it up and finally he saw it. "The dithcontinued movie theater from 1985? I have been looking for thith my whole life. How did you know?""Well, I have been follwing your blog, "I ♥ Christmas" for three years and I knew you wanted it. I decided that I would find it for you so you would know how much you mean to me. What do you say? Will you choke my chicken, Lispy Gay?"

Lispy's smile was brighter than the 100 LED lights that he bought for the artificial trees in his village. He hugged his newest prized possession and looked at his boss. "Oh Tham, I love you too. When I thaw you with Theven that time, I thought I would never have a chanth. I'm tho happy!"

Lispy Gay and Sam spent the rest of the day creating the most splendiferous Christmas Village ever. They made angel food cake cookies and hot chocolate spiked with Kahlua and eventually retreated to the bedroom where they locked lips under the watchful eye of a photo of Judy Garland who hung over the bed. The two had found happiness. The next morning when Patti Lupone awoke them from their first night together, they knew that from that day forward they would be together. Just Sam, Lispy Gay. And a cute little miniature schnauzer named Tranny Sore Ass Rex.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

I am doing a little experiment. Today is day three in a four day serial of Lispy Gay. Hopefully, at the end of each post, you will be so filled with anticipation that you will hardly be able to wait until the next installment to find out what happens. I just thought it would be fun. Or maybe it will suck. We shall see. You can read installment #1 here. And installment #2 here. Your comments are appreciated.

Standing on the doorstep, with eyes red from crying, was a woman that Lispy Gay knew too well. In fact, he had just been thinking of her. "Oh Lispy," she said. "I think my husband Sam, your Choking Chicken boss, is having an affair and I don't know what to do." In shock, Lispy Gay replied, "What in heaventh name makesth you think that Prithilla?" Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that his dog was resting his head on a pile of fabric that was going to be the hills of Christmas Village. It seemed like ages ago that this day was all about making the biggest and best Christmas extravaganza ever and now it had become a soap opera. "Last night, Sam was talking in his sleep and he said something." Lispy looked back at the woman and invited her inside. Priscilla continued. "He said "You do that better than my wife does, Steven.' Who the hell is Steven??" Lispy tried to decide how to respond and also tried to figure out why Priscilla was there. They had only met a few times and he never thought she liked him very much. "Gee, I dunno," he said. "Do you want some homemade macaroons?" She stuffed three of them into her tiny mouth and said, "You're probably wondering why I came to you with this problem. Well, it sounds to me like Sam was dreaming about another man and if anyone knows about dreaming about men, I figured it would be you. I mean, right?" "What maketh you thay that?" asked Lispy Gay as he crossed his arms and pursed his lips while straightening the hem of his negligee. "Oh, well, I dunno...I..I just thought that..." Her voice trailed off as she looked at the pile of Department 56 spread across the floor. "I guess, I just assumed that you're gay. You do have a miniature schnauzer."

At this point, Lispy Gay had had just about enough. He had only been awake for a little over an hour and his favorite day of the year had been ruined. He had been fired, gotten his job by blackmailing his in-the-closet boss and now this woman was here assuming that she knew all about his sexual orientation. "Now you lithen here, mithy. I may like pink and thatin sheets and occaithionally lithen to Barbra Sthreithand but that doth not mean I am gay. Juth becauth I buy KY Jelly by the gallon and I have a dog named Tranny Thore Ath Rex doth not mean you can come here and athk me questionsth about your thupposedly and pothibly gay huthband." Priscilla sat up straight in her chair. "I apologize, Lispy Gay. It was wrong of me to assume. So are you straight then?" Lispy took a long sip of his chamomile tea and said, "No, I'm ath gay ath a gooth. You juth hit a nerve, thath all. Tho what about Tham? Ith that what you were crying about?"

"Actually, no. If he's gay. I'm glad. I have wanted out of this marriage for ten years. Those were tears of joy. So do you think he's cheating on me with someone named Steven?"

Just as Lispy was about to vocalize his opinion on the whole scenario, the telephone rang. He skipped over to the pink princess phone and picked it up. "Lithby Gay rethidence." There was a pause on the other end of the line and then a clearing of the throat. "Hello? Ith thomeone there?" Another pause. And then, "Mi nombre es Stefano. I want to talk to you."

Tune in tomorrow for the conclusion of the adventures of Lispy Gay! And maybe you want to Tweet this too?

Friday, December 17, 2010

I am doing a little experiment. Today is day two in a four day serial of Lispy Gay. Hopefully, at the end of each post, you will be so filled with anticipation that you will hardly be able to wait until the next installment to find out what happens. I just thought it would be fun. Or maybe it will suck. We shall see. You can read installment #1 here. Your comments are appreciated.

Sam, the manager of the Choking Chicken heard the deafening sound of the dial tone after Lispy Gay hung up on him. He sat there in his office for ten minutes trying to decide what to do. A muffled sound coming from under his desk brought him back to the present. "Thanks, Steven, but you can stop now. I'm not in the mood anymore. And you're fired." Steven wiped his mouth and said, "Mi nombre es Stefano" and shuffled out of the room. Sam looked at the picture of his wife and his emotions got the best of him. He cried with guilt.

Back at the home of Lispy Gay, the idea of setting up his Christmas village was no longer as exciting as it was a few minutes earlier. Sure he would do it and do it perfectly, but his main concern now was to find out who had outed his blog, "I ♥ Christmas" to his manager. He had never told anyone at work about it for fear that they would make fun of him. Could it be that one of his regular readers was someone he actually worked with and they recognized that the person writing the blog was Lispy Gay? The chances were astronomical considering the blog only had ten followers, but stranger things have happened. (For instance, that time that Lispy Gay went to Target to pick up a few things and ended up in the bathroom with the electronics manager and Lispy Gay went home with "free" c.d. alarm clock; the same alarm clock that only moments ago had serenaded him with the sweet sounds of Patti Lupone. That was pretty strange.) He gave Tranny Sore Ass Rex a scratch on the belly and went to setting up the Christmas village church and barber shop.

For the next four hours, as he created handmade glitter for the gazebo fountain, his mind kept racing back to his encounter with Sam that morning. "Thamobviouthly wanted to give me a chanth to come in to work without firing me. He knowth I'm the bethathithtant Chicken Choker he'th ever had," he said to his collection of Raggedy Ann dolls that sat on the top of his hutch. They looked back at him with their thread eyes that said "We love you, Lispy Gay." He loved his collection of Raggedy Anns almost as much as his collection of Cher Barbie dolls. "But why did he want to fire me? I juth wanted to uth my thick day before the end of the year." He remembered now that he had secured his job back by way of blackmail. Lispy Gay didn't want to tell Sam's wife what he knew about him and Steven. He just wanted his job back. "And now Tham probably hateth me." Lispy Gay removed a silver locket from around his neck and opened it up to reveal a picture of him and Sam at last year's holiday party. Sam had his arm around Lispy Gay and they were both wearing their "Can I choke your Chicken?" t-shirts. Sam had a beer in his left hand and his right hand, unseen by the camera lens, was on the small of Lispy Gay's back. Lispy Gay recalled how grateful he had been that his shirt was untucked when that picture was snapped, because the feeling of Sam's hand on his body had made him a bit too excited. Lispy clutched the locket to his chest and began to cry. What was it going to be like when he went back to work the next day? How could things ever go back to normal now that his job knew he wrote a blog about Christmas and that he had blackmailed his boss. "Choking the Chicken will never be the thame," he sobbed.

The doorbell rang and Lispy wiped the tears from his face. It was too early for tea time with his mother so he looked through the peep hole and was surprised at who he saw. He hastliy smoothed his hair and readjusted his outfit and opened the door. "What are you doing here, you thillygooth?"

Tune in tomorrow for the continuing adventures of Lispy Gay! And maybe you want to Tweet this too?

Thursday, December 16, 2010

I am doing a little experiment. Today I shall start a four day serial of Lispy Gay. Hopefully, at the end of each post, you will be so filled with anticipation that you will hardly be able to wait until the next installment to find out what happens. I just thought it would be fun. Or maybe it will suck. we shall see. Your comments are appreciated.

The piercing sound of Patti Lupone belting an E flat in "Rainbow High" shot through the alarm clock speakers serving as that morning's wake up call. A sleepy hand appeared from underneath the pink sateen sheets to hit the snooze button and Patti abruptly halted in mid screech. Seven minutes later, it came again and this time a highlighted head popped up from the pillow with bright eyes and bushy tail. The man slipped his pedicured feet into his Felix the Cat slippers and shuffled to the kitchen where he picks up the telephone to make the call that he knew would be happening this morning. Just as planned, an answering machine picks up and he leaves a message. "Hi thith ith Lithpy Gay calling? I am tho thorry, but I have a thore throat thith morning and a bit of a fever? I think it would be beth if I thay at home today? I tho don't want to get anyone elth thick. Buh bye." He placed the receiver back on the princess phone and gave himself a hug, wrapping his arms around himself with sheer joy. He now had the whole day for his favorite activity. He wasn't going to finish alphabetizing his musical theater collection or watchevery episodeof Barefoot Contessa. No, today he had set aside to put together his Christmas Extravaganza using his Department 56 Original Snow Village. He had a collection of over 100 pieces from the the town post office to Marvel's Beauty Salon to the cutest little trash cans that were overflowing with tiny pieces of Christmas wrapping paper. "Today ith going to be the beth day ever," he said to his miniature schnauzer, Tranny Sore Ass Rex.

Lispy Gay went to his Mr. Coffee and made himself an extra large pot for he knew he was going to need a lot of energy this morning if he was going to complete his Christmas Village in only one day. He quickly ate a bowl of Greek yogurt with berries as Barbra Streisand's Christmas album played in the background. Still in his negligee, he went to his closet and started to pull out the boxes that contained his pride and joy. Right when he was about to open the first piece, Dinah's Drive In, his cell phone rang. Recognizing the number, he quickly hit the ignore button. It was his boss at the Choking Chicken, the bar b-q restaurant where he was the assistant manager. "Why ith he calling me?" he wanted to know. "I have a thick day. Thith ith not fair!" He stomped his foot on the leopard skin rug as he retrieved the voice mail.

"Uh, hi, Lispy Gay? This is Sam here at work. I know you're sick and everything but we really need you to come in today. Maybe you can just come in for the lunch rush? Sally's cat went into the emergency room last night and she can't be here. We had two waiters call in sick and the hostess broke her toe and she can't seat people. Call me back as soon as you get this message. Thanks."

Lispy Gay was furious. He had planned this day for two weeks. He had already told his mother that she could come over that night for tea so he could show off the village and surprise her with the newest addition; a pair of ice skaters who actually glided across a frozen pond. "Thupid Sally and her thupid cat," he whined. "And I don't care if a hothess broke her toe. I want my thick day!" He frantically punched the numbers in his cell phone to call his manager. "Hello, Tham? Thith ith Lithpy Gay? I am tho thick. I have a fever of a hundred and thix and my throat ith thwelled up? I thimply can't make it in today." After a long pause, Sam said, "I really think it's best you come in. Don't you wanna be the best assistant Choking Chicken manager you can be, Lispy Gay?" "Of courth I do. You know I do. I love Choking Chicken. Ith my favorite thing. But I'm thick." "Are you really sick, Lispy Gay because I'm not so sure," said Sam. Lispy Gay looked over at the box of artificial snow, swallowed and said, "I thwear on a thack of Judy Garland albumth that I am the thicketh I have ever been. I can't come in today." He coughed to validate his point.

Sam cleared his throat. "Okay, I didn't wanna have to do this, but I know you're not sick. You're planning to set up some kind of Christmas village today and you're faking. I don't even know what a Christmas village is but, I read on your "I ♥ Christmas" blog that you planned to fake an illness so you could do this. You're fired. Come in tomorrow to turn in your Choking Chicken apron and badge." Sam hung up.

Lispy Gay was in shock. How did anyone even know about his "I ♥ Christmas"blog? He had never told anyone he worked with about it. A tear welled up in his eye and it fell onto the ear of his Felix the Cat slipper on his right foot. "But I juth wanted a day for the Chrithmath Village. Ith that tho wrong?" He couldn't lose this job. Not now, only two weeks before Christmas and right before he had a chance to win Choking Chickener of the Year. How could a day that was going to be so perfect already be so wrong? He decided to call Sam and get his job back. He knew just how to do it too.

"How can I choke your chicken, this Sam. Can I help you?"
"I want my job back, Tham."
"Sorry, Lipsy Gay, it's too late. Nothing you say can change my mind."
"Nothing? Not even if I remind you about that time that I wath looking for thalt in the thoreroom and I thaw you in there? With Theven? The delivery boy? How would your wife feel about that, Tham? Hmmm?"
Sam didn't know anyone had seen him and Steven. It was a one time thing. It was an accident. Not meant to happen. But it did happen. And Lispy Gay knew about it. "You wouldn't tell my wife about that, would you, Lispy Gay?"
Lispy Gay laughed the way that Joan Crawford laughed when she knew she had someone by the balls. "Oh, wouldn't I? Now about thith thick day of mine."

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

I few nights ago at work, one of the performers was celebrating the birth of our saviour, Jesus Christ, by presenting a Christmas show of all Christmas music. Said performer was Jewish, but that's a different story. Jesus may be the reason for the season but everyone wants to sing "Jingle Bells." Religious beliefs are hastily set aside when it comes to belting out a Christmas carol or two. Before the show, someone of her entourage pulled out a bag from Jack's 99¢ Store and revealed a shocking supply of candy canes. I knew right then and there that we were about to be witness to a recreation of the infamous gummi bear event of June 2010. Sure enough, this Holiday Elf went to each and every seat and placed a candy cane in front of it as an offering to the audience. I hate when that happens. We already have candles, table tents, bev naps, comment cards, pens and table numbers on the table but by all means, add a freakin' candy cane to it too. Don't worry about me having room to put your martini somewhere. Throughout the show, I could hear the tell tale sound of crinkling cellophane as people opened up their candy canes. No one ever eats a whole fucking candy cane though. Ever. I mean, have you ever eaten a whole candy cane? We open it, break off a bit and then leave the rest where we found it. And sometimes we spit out the little bit that we started to eat leaving a sticky chunk of used up peppermint candy for someone else to clean up. That someone else was me that night.

At the end of the show, out of the seventy people there, easily 68 of them decided to spit out a portion of the candy cane. The tables looked like Santa's elves had puked after too many Peppermint martinis at the holiday party. Shards of candy cane and half eaten pieces littered my station. Everything at the tables was stickier than the headboard at Lispy Gay's house after his annual Tupperware party. It was nasty. The cellophane was everywhere and due to the static electricity in the air, it was stuck to the booths, stuck to my pants, stuck to the walls and stuck in my craw. I was cleaning up after the show and getting irritated with the whole situation when one of the songs the performer had sung came into my mind. The lyrics were now ringing in my ears:

Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
Make the yule-tide gay.
From now on,
our troubles will be miles away.

After I gave up trying to understand what a yule-tide was and what made it go gay, I focused on the rest of the sweet words. "From now on, our troubles will be miles away." How silly I was being to be upset that candy canes were making a mess in my station. What kind of Grinch am I anyway? Can't I let people have a good time with a candy cane and not be upset that I have to clean up after them? "Let my troubles be miles away," I thought. Picking up an unopened candy cane, I held it in my palm and smiled. I recalled how when I was a kid it was so fun to get them in my stocking and how I used to suck on them and swirl them in my mouth until the end was as pointy as it could be. I opened the candy cane and broke off a piece, As I put it into my mouth, I expected to feel like a kid again when Christmas was fun with no stress and responsibility. I awaited the flood gates of memory to invade my mind. Instead, this is what I thought: "Fuck this candy cane tastes like shit. Who the hell buys candy canes at Jack's 99¢ Store? Fuck!" I spit that shit out and went back to cleaning tables.

Monday, December 13, 2010

Let us look into the Bitchy Waiter inbox and see who could benefit from the wisdom amassed from my 38 years of waiting tables.

Do you have an issue that The Bitchy Waiter can help you with? Job, personal, relationships? You name it. You can email me here . Or just email me to say hello. It makes me happy. Let's see what we find in the mailbag today:

Dear Bitchy Waiter,

I consider myself to be an ideal customer. I am polite, good tipper, not too picky. I have one pet peeve that will put a black cloud over my dining experience. I do not consider myself a slow eater but I absolutely hate it when I am enjoying the appetizer I ordered and then the salad comes 2 minutes later. Or if I am still eating my soup and the entree is brought out. Can they not see that I am obviously not ready for that food? I do get an attitude and I will ignore the new food on purpose and make sure they see me taking my time getting to it. I hesitate to send it back "until I'm ready" for fear I will piss them off. What is the best way to handle this situation?

Sign me,

Still eating

Dear Still Eating,

On behalf of all waiters please accept my heartfelt apology that they brought your food out too soon. Yes, that can be annoying I know. But the one thing that I find even more troubling in your letter is that you order an app and then follow it with a salad. Salad? After an app? I don't get it. Maybe a salad as an app or maybe a salad for an entree, but what kind of sick health nut are you that you require an app and a salad? Maybe it's my upbringing in Texas, but to me the salad is the thing that you have to eat as soon as possible so it is out of the way and you can then focus on the real food. Like mashed potatoes and chicken fried steak. But back to your problem. I think you should just say when you order that you want to make sure the first course is finished before the next one comes out. I don't imagine that any server is going to care that much and worst case scenario is that shit will sit under a heat lamp until you are ready for it. By accepting the food and then letting it sit there on your table as you take your time to get to it seems like it's only making things worse for yourself. Trust me. The waiter doesn't care if you are trying to prove a point by making sure he sees you ignoring the food. All he's thinking is, "Whatever. If you don't want it yet, just tell me to take it back to the kitchen and keep it warm." If you don't say anything, they aren't going to do anything. In the future, just order your app and entree and just tell them to not bring out the entree until you are ready for it. Or you could always hold off on your entree order until you are almost done with the app. That will work too.

Most importantly though, chill out on the salad. Eat some fried cheese sticks.

Sunday, December 12, 2010

I need to rescind something that I wrote about someone a long time ago. Back in September of 2009, I wrote about Suze Orman and how she had supposedly gone on to The Oprah Winfrey Show and advised people to tip only 10% in order to save money. A few people were upset with me that I failed to do any research on this rumor before posting it on the blog.

Anne Marie said:

Does anyone EVER check to see if a rumor is true before they bitch? I couldn't give a rat's ass about Suze Orman or Oprah, but there's no evidence the Suze ever said this, and sure as hell not on the Big O. Fucking Google, people. There are thousands and thousands of real asshole customers, including celebrities if that's what you care about.

Get over it, Ann Marie. It's a blog, not the goddamn fucking New York Times.

The link is to Snopes and confirms that the whole Suze tipping 10% is a rumor. Anonymous also can't spell.

Well, when I was working at The Place That Shall Not be Named, guess who came in to eat. Suze Orman. And she sat in the station that I was training in so I actually got to wait on her. Thankfully, I don't work there anymore because we are not allowed to Tweet, Facebook or blog about the celebrities who come into the restaurant. But my ass was fired so I can blog away about it. Suze Orman was so fucking cool. She was friendly, polite, charming, gracious and funny. When a table next to her wanted to say hello, Suze was more than willing to have a conversation with them. "Girlfriend," she told them. "You must get the sundae for dessert. You. Will. Love. It." And Suze was generous too. Their bill was about $250 and they left a $100 tip. That is fucking cool. Of course, I was only training and didn't get to see any of that money and because of the way that place tipped out the server only got to keep about $35 bucks of it.

But I take back what I said about Suze Orman. She is one cool, big tippin', big grinnin', lady lovin' financial expert and I would be happy to have her in my station again any time. Suze, please accept my apologies.

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Friday, December 10, 2010

Last night I decided to class my ass up a bit and went to a wine and cheese bar. After getting over the initial shock that a wine and cheese bar sells only wine and cheese, I went with a very delicious sounding glass of PinotGrigio that had notes of light citrus and delicate floral aromas that were complemented by hints of tropical fruit flavors. It was also the cheapest. I sat in a leather wing back chair with my smoking jacket on enjoying the company of good friends and listening to the jazz music that played softly over head. The candles cast a pale warm glow across the room and the Christmas tree in the corner made the place feel like a second kind of home. The smell of cured meets and savory crackers filled my nose and the clinking of wine glasses was oh so comfortable. Then another sound erupted that was incongruous with the atmosphere. The sound was that of a little girl who was screaming with wonder at the Christmas tree that only moments ago had seemed so comforting. "What the hell is a little girl doing in a bar?" I hissed to a friend. I spun my head around to see where the parent of this wayward tot was and I saw her sitting at a table holding another child. Now there were two things ruining my night; a little girl and a little boy. No, this was not happening. I went to this wine bar to be sophisticated and shit, not irritated and shit. The little girl started running towards our end of the room. I quickly shot a look that I thought would effectively create an invisible wall around my friends, but this little girl crashed through my barrier and sat on the step next to us. Of course she screamed as she ran. The mother got up and rushed over to the brat. I eagerly anticipated seeing a swat on the butt or a slap on the wrist to teach this kid a lesson. But no. The mother simply said, "No, no we don't want to bother these other people, sweetie." Newsflash, Mom: too late. I'm bothered. The mother then took the little girl by both hands and spun her around while the little girl laughed. And screamed. Then the little boy wanted a turn. What the fuck is wrong with people? Do they not see I am trying to be all mature and cultured? I'm sittin' in a freakin' wine bar for cryin' out loud. Jesus H. Christ.

The parents let the kids play as they finished their glasses of wine. Meanwhile, I had blood dripping out of my ears from listening to the kids scream with laughter at whatever the fuck makes a four year old scream with laughter. More than once I saw mom get up and join in on the fun making the kids even louder. It was simply not possible for me to give them an eye that was any stinkier than the one I was giving them. After about 15 minutes, I noticed that they asked for the check. Either, it was the kids bedtime or the parents finally realized that their darling children were annoying the fuck out of everyone else in the bar. After they left, I readjusted my face from the scowl and let my eyes resolve back to their natural state of bleary and bloodshot. Finally, I could get all sophisticated. I pulled out my pipe and put my feet up on the ottoman ready to enjoy my night of being civilized. I retied my ascot and ordered my second glass of wine, but this time I didn't get the cheapest one. I got the second cheapest one. 'Cause I'm sophisticated and shit.

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Thursday, December 9, 2010

Maybe it's me, but I am rarely in a situation where my friends and I are fighting to pay the check. It has been rumoured (and confirmed) that I am cheap, stingy, greedy and poor. So last night when I saw two people arguing over who would have the privilege of paying the bill, it was like looking into this weird other world that makes no sense to me. Coming from a history of dollar menus, Top Ramen and trailer parks I give thanks when someone says "no, let me pick up the check." Here is what I do not say after hearing those words: "Oh no, let me get it." Instead I say, "Okay, but let me order another round first then." (Right, Marlene?)

Last night at table six, three different people out of five wanted to be the big shot and pay the bill. The check was substantial too; about $179. As they were all flashing their credit cards at me trying to get me to take theirs, I looked at the two other people and gave them a knowing look. I shared a brief telekinetic moment with each of them as we looked deep into each other's souls and recognized the cheap ass kinsmanship we shared. Meanwhile, three credit cards were being thrust at me. I have a rule. The first person who either says they are paying or gets the card or cash in my hand is the one who pays. I don't care. I wish I could just flat out ask who is going to tip the most because then that would be who will pay, but it somehow seems a bit tacky to do that. I may be be cheap, but I ain't tacky. Okay, I admit it. I am cheap and tacky. Case in point. So I took the credit card from the pasty faced man because he was the one who made eye contact with me first and had his credit card the most accessible. As I walked away from the table, I heard the other two wannabees grumbling about how I should have taken their credit card. Again, it makes little or no difference to me who pays. Unless Pasty Face's card was declined, he would be paying. The only time I may go back on my own rule is when the people who are both wanting to pay are of different genders. In that case, I always go with the man. No, not because I think a gentleman always pays or I think that women don't deserve equal rights. It's because in my experience, men just tip better. Sorry ladies, it's a fact. If I have a choice between a four top of men or a four top of women, bet your bottom dollar that I am going to take the men. In the case last night, all three who wanted to pay were men, so Pasty Face won. When three men are trying to outdo each other by flashing their American Express cards, I just wanna tell them to get a ruler, go to the bathroom and measure your dicks already.

Pasty Face's card was successfully run and he left me a fat 20% tip, so I definitely was pleased with the outcome. The two other men probably felt like Pasty Face was the winner but in my eyes the winners were the two silent people who never offered to pay in the first place. They kept their mouths shut, their eyes down and their penis in their pants and left without having to open their wallets all evening. Job well done, you cheap sons of bitches. I couldn't have done it any better myself.

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Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Today is the two year anniversary of The Bitchy Waiter. Yes, time flies when I am bitching. In the two years that I have been writing, I have managed to come up with 378 topics and what you are reading right now is number 379. At this moment, there are 3,460 fans on Facebook and 2,812 followers on blogspot. Incredible. I looked up the traditional anniversary gifts to see what I should be expecting for gifts and I was rather disappointed. The traditional gift to give for a second anniversary is something made of cotton. The modern gift is china. Both of these sucks. When I think of cotton, I think of fabric that makes me think of dinner napkins which makes me think of working in a restaurant. Fuck that gift. When I think of china of course it makes me think of clearing tables of plates. Fuck that gift too. Maybe I should consider this a birthday instead of anniversary. So I did a little research to see what the average two-year old should be up to and this is what I found. A two year old should be able to:

walk alone (like they do in my station).

pull toys behind him (like they do in my station).

climb onto and down from furniture unassisted (like they do in my fucking station).

dump things out of containers (like they do to my sugar caddies in my mother fucking goddamn station).

Forget it, I can't go on. I hate two-year olds. So for my anniversary/birthday there is something I want. I don't want you to all sing "Happy Birthday" to me as you present me with a partially frozen birthday cake that has a candle in it that someone found in the back of the drawer. I want more fans. If everyone who reads this could just convince one other person to "like" me on Facebook maybe I could reach 5,000 by the end of the year. Is that too much to ask? Or share this link with someone so I can get double the traffic today. Is that too hard to do? Or maybe you can click here and show me your love in another way.

Seriously, thank you for reading. It still baffles me that anyone reads this blog at all, but to know that so many people do read makes me happy almost everyday. I thank each and every one of you. You are all great. (Except Penelope. She is a dried up twat face who can eat my pud.)

Love,The Bitchy Waiter

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Monday, December 6, 2010

Seeing how many trays I have held over the years, it's amazing that I have not spilled more often than I have. I am knocking on wood right now, because I do not want to jinx myself and then the next time I go to work end up dropping a hummus platter into the lap of someone. Last night though I had a couple of minor spills. One was my fault but the other was absolutely unequivocally not my fault in the slightest tiniest teeniest bit.

The club was crowded as hell last night. Like people crammed in tighter than the 6 train at rush hour. Tighter than sardines in a can. Tighter than Joan River's face. (Okay maybe not that tight...). It takes a serious case of balance and gymnastics to get to the tables in the dark while a show is happening all the while carrying a tray of martinis. There is some Mary Lou Retton shit going on up in there. I went over to Table 32 and began to place the Cosmopearitan (yummy, by the way) in front of the single lady. It was filled to the brim and a tiny bit of the nectar dripped over the edge of the glass spilling onto her hand and pants leg. It may have been about a teaspoon. The lady acted like I had just dumped a tsunami in her lap. I whispered "I'm sorry" to her and put the drink down. She grabbed a bev nap from the table and started wiping her whole entire body with it. She seemed to think that the whole drink had spilled on her. Frantically, she sopped up vodka and pear liqueur that wasn't even there. "Are you alright?" I asked. She glared at me seething with inner rage and hissed, "I'm wet!" The way she said it was as if she meant to say "I was just stabbed in the heart with an ice pick and my lung has also been punctured. It is horrible. This is the most awful thing I have ever been a part of." But she just said "I'm wet." I was certain that she wasn't really that wet. Damp, maybe. Wet? No. She got over it.

Thirty minutes later as I was clearing tables, my tray was now loaded with three half full bottles of Pelligrino and a couple of coffee creamers that still had milk in them. I was standing next to the bus tub to deposit them but waiting for people to get the hell out of the way. Someone bumped into me causing the bottles to fall over spilling water on my shirt and then knocking the creamers full of milk onto the floor. The man who ran into me had this brilliant question for me: Am I in the way? Well, let's see, sir. You are standing between the computer, the trash can, the service station and the bus tub so yes. You are in the way. Can't he go stand where the other customers are? Go outside? Go to his table? Go home? He informed me that he just wanted to find a place that he would not be in the way, so he moved two whole feet and proceeded to stand in the only means of entrance to the room. Just stood there. Yeah, that's better, sir.

I took a cue from the lady at Table 32 and grabbed a bev nap and dried myself off. I was way wetter than she was, but mine was only water. At least hers was Cosmopeariton. She got to smell like a cocktail while I just smelled like sparkling water, hummus and bitterness.

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Sunday, December 5, 2010

The weather out side is frightful, but he fire is so delightful. And since you've no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. Just kidding. I freakin' hate the cold winter weather here in New York City. The weather sucks, there are too many tourists here, the trains are too crowded and the pressure to find the perfect gift for everyone you ever met in your whole life is far too much stress. Until now, that is! This season, I will be giving friends and family original works of art that I created myself and now you can too. That's right, just by clicking this link, all of your holiday shopping can be easier than adding automatic gratuity to that party of ten teenage girls who shared a plate of nachos with four Diet Cokes and six waters. Yes, this is an ad for my very own Bitchy Waiter necklaces. I have new designs now too. Gummi bear, shrimp and everyone's favorite food group corn dog. And if you don't want a blue gummi bear, then just tell me what color you want? Green? Yes! Yellow? Absolutely! Pink? Gay!

If you have a special request email me and maybe I can create exactly what you want. Just last week, I made a custom Sri Racha hot sauce necklace that came out looking really cool. Have an idea? Email me at sideofmustard@gmail.com.

Okay, I am done. But serioulsy, for every necklace that you buy, a portion of the proceeds goes directly into a fund to provide Citron Vodka for a very needy waiter. Won't you please help? Click here if you care.

Friday, December 3, 2010

This blog post is ripped from the headlines: Would-Be Robbers Foiled by Panda Express Workers. When I saw the story I was immediately impressed by the bravery of the employees who surely put their own lives at stake in order to save the cash register. These must be some true blue heroes indeed. But upon reading the story more closely, it turns out that the restaurant was already closed and when the robbers tried to get past the locked doors, the workers simply refused to open the them. Duh. If you see someone with a gun and he is on the other side of a locked door, my thought would be to not unlock it. Now I have never taken any self defense courses or studied the world of criminology, but it seems like there is no other option. What other action would anyone take?

ROBBER: Knock, knock.WAITER: Who's there?ROBBER: Robber.WAITER: Robber who?ROBBER: Robber with a gun, now open this mother fucking door.WAITER: Oh, wait did you say robber with a gun or without a gun? I couldn't quite hear you since you are on the other side of a locked door.ROBBER: Robber with a gun.WAITER: Oh okay then, hold on and let me unlock this deadbolt. (click) There we are. Come right in, Robber-ROBBER: Bam, you're dead.

While I am happy that these poor Panda Express workers weren't harmed, I don't really think they thwarted a robbery. Thwarting it would be like the criminals were already in the restaurant and through some kind of plan the bandits were tricked into putting the gun down at which time a waiter fell from a hidden compartment in the ceiling and attacked the robber while another waiter grabbed the gun and called 911. In this case they did what I do to anyone who tries to come into my restaurant after we are closed: give 'em the evil eye, burp out "we're closed" and saunter back to my after shift cocktail. If I am ever in the situation where I am face to face with robbers in my restaurant here is what I would say:

Hold up, lemme get you all the money in the cash register and show you where the safe is. If we can't get it open, I'll help you carry it to your getaway vehicle and you can deal with it later. Here's my wallet, my tips and my five dollar ladies watch that I bought on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 52ndStreet. Do you guys wanna a drink? Lemme make you a martini and then when I'm done with the vodka you can put that in your getaway vehicle too. I think my manger has an iPad in his locker. Lemme show you which one it is. Oh and don't forget to take the video tapes from the closed circuit camera with you when you go. Is there anything else you need? You sure? Okay then. Y'all have a good night. Here take this cappuccino machine with you too. Bye bye.

Brave? No, not at all. I ain't no Panda Express worker. I am a freaking coward ass pussy wimp bitch. And proud of it.

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